


Yest' chelóvek, yest' probléma. Net chelovéka, net problémy.

by phantomas (sil)



Category: Eastern Promises (2007)
Genre: Yuletide 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sil/pseuds/phantomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Galadriel in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge</p>
    </blockquote>





	Yest' chelóvek, yest' probléma. Net chelovéka, net problémy.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Galadriel in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge

"If there is a person, there is a problem. If there is no person, then there is no problem." (Russian saying)

He knows where she is. He always knows. There are ways. He can't resist, this time. He rarely leaves London, and even more rarely on his own. He doesn't get many chances like this one. It might very well be the very last one. It's like...a breath of fresh air. Strong, pungent, filling his lungs, filling them so much that it seems as if they're going to explode, they will explode with the next breath, they will expand in his chest, crash his heart, break his ribs, one after the other, push out from inside his skin.

Yes, it does hurt, to see her, as she walks pushing the trolley, the tiny toddler in it kicking little booted feet up in the air. See her, making sure she doesn't see him. It hurts that much.

But, you can't not breathe. You can't stop needing fresh air. It's a luxury he shouldn't allow himself, Nikolai knows it well. This is a rare occasion, however. A small crack in a formidable structure. It won't weaken the whole. Everything will still keep going on as it should. Business will be taken care of, and names will be passed on to those that can use them in the best way.

For a handful of moments, though, for these few minutes, Nikolai hears the rhythm of her steps - sensible low-heeled shoes, how typical - beating in synch with the pulse of his heart, the straight line of her back a beacon for his eyes, and he inhales, deeply, slowly, and her sight and his knowledge pervade him, like oxygen-rich fresh air fuelling him onward, on the path he's chosen.

After all, it's Christmas. Nikolai thinks that he deserves a gift, this one that he really wants. A few seconds, and a blonde woman strolling along, window shopping, unaware. Her and the baby. Safe and sound.

Some gifts are expensive. This one...this one has no price. And it costs nothing. All that was due has been paid already, in sweat and blood. A prison of his own making, as Nikolai thinks of it at times. Some habits, they last a lifetime, and even when the walls aren't around you anymore, you find other types of walls to substitute for them.

...............

Kirill is asleep. He's snoring, loudly, feet encased in perfectly polished black leather ankle boots resting carelessly on the expensive mahogany coffee table. There's an empty bottle on the Persian rug underneath the leather sofa, and another half empty one on the table. No glasses.

Nikolai removes his leather gloves slowly, finger by finger, almost delicately, as he watches Kirill sleep. Each movement is slow and measured, until the gloves are carefully rolled and put away in his coat's pockets.

Kirill snores, sniffles, turns to lie on his side. A half-folded letter falls on the floor. Nikolai bends to pick it up, the only sound in the flat the loud ticking of an old pendulum clock. He reads it quickly, those few lines that are there. A few apparently innocuous words in Russian, some terse phrases in English. The old man, cunning as always, trying to give orders and move things and people in his way even from prison. At least, until the extradiction is finalized.

And then, udaci, Semyon. You svóloch.

Nikolai folds the letter in half, then again, and places it under the half empty bottle of whiskey. Not a word for Kirill, in that letter. Not really.

Nikolai stays still, looking down at Kirill sleeping off the booze. Then, with measured, quiet steps, retreats to his room, closes the door after himself, a soft click in counter-time to the pendulum clock's ticking their life away.

...............

"Did you see her?" Kirill asks as he pours the wine in his glass, the remains of their dinner on the table still.

Nikolai gestures with his hand in mid-air, without looking, and a waitress appears right away, starting to clean up the plates and silver.

Kirill sips the wine, staring at Nikolai over the rim of the glass. "You did, didn't you?"

Nikolai doesn't answer. He tilts his head, barely. Maybe his lips curl in a fraction of a smile. Or it's just the light in his eyes. "We have more important matters to discuss. Business. The shipments are late."

"Ah, fuck the shipments. Onegin's an old balvan, he can't see the shit on his shoes anymore, we should find someone better. Time to make some changes, don't you think? I'll show you. I have people, names in my head that will do as we please, we'll only need to snap our fingers..like so!" Kirill laughs out loud, throwing his head back, snapping his fingers over and over again. His chair balances precariously on the back legs only.

Nikolai lowers his head, with a small smile. He places a small notebook and a pencil on the table. For a moment he stares at the knuckles of his left hand - cebep, a letter for each knuckle - and images of the walls and iron bars there flash in his memory, the stink of urine and burned soles pressed on his skin, the dark ink making an indelible stain on his soul.

Reaching across the table, he pours more wine into Kirill' glass, then offers the glass to him. Their fingertips touch, as Kirill's chair settles back in place with a loud 'thump' noise and he grabs the glass off Nikolai's hand.

The touch lingers.

"So, who do you want to call, then?" Nikolai asks quietly, taking his hand away in order to pick his pencil up. Of course, no names are going to be written down, but notes, abbreviations that only a few understand. Nothing that couldn't be casually left around without fear.

Unless the code was not as secret as the Vory V Zakone believes it to be.

........

Stepping up the stairs to the flat they now share, Nikolai has to put his shoulder under Kirill's arm, to keep him upright. It's hard to manouvre the tall man past the heavy door and through the long corridor that leads to his bedroom. Drunken-ness doesn't make for balance and coordination. Kirill chuckles to himself, and then swears, mixing English and Russian, moving from one language to the other as he switches from mood to mood.

"Papa will be fine, da? He will. Papa always does."

Nikolai doesn't answer him, and tries to make Kirill sit on the dark burgundy damasque bedspread, but Kirill's longer legs are tangled with his, and they both end up half sprawled on the bed, Nikolai's arm trapped under Kirill's back.

Kirill's breath smells of wine, when he turns his head towards Nikolai. "Papa will be fine, da?" His speech slurred, he barely murmurs the words.

"Da, da, Kirill."

"We will be fine..." Kirill shifts on the bed, closer to Nikolai. His body is warm, dark patches of sweat under his arms. His thigh brushes on Nikolai's groin, rests there heavily. He seeks Nikolai's eyes, for an answer.

"We will be fine," Nikolai says, and if it sounds more like 've vill', none of them cares.

He lifts his free hand slowly, reaching out to brush Kirill's hair off his forehead. He keeps the movement slow, and easy, a careful petting of a restless, wounded tiger. Kirill sighs a little, closes his eyes. Shifts again in the bed, places a hand on Nikolai's waist.

Nikolai feels the weight of it through his clothes, feels it burning on his skin. Ink never felt like that. Maybe he should mark that spot, on his body. It feels as if it is marked already, anyway. And it goes deeper. And deeper still.

Kirill's eyes close slowly. Nikolai keeps petting him, gently, his fingertips combing Kirill's hair, listening to his breathing. After a long while, when Kirill is clearly heavily asleep, it's Nikolai's turn to shift closer, fitting better against Kirill's body.

His lips brush Kirill's forehead, lightly.

Then Nikolai lets himself fall asleep, too.

**Author's Note:**

> [udaci = good luck, ironic]
> 
> [svóloch = bastard, dick, douche]
> 
> [balvan = thick headed fool]
> 
> [cebep = north, meaning the harsher prisons in the north of Russia]
> 
> language reference sites:
> 
> http://www.youswear.com/index.asp?language=Russian
> 
> http://everything2.com/index.pl?node_id=1535768
> 
> http://www.omniglot.com/language/phrases/russian.php
> 
> tats references from:
> 
> http://nikkie222.livejournal.com/25507.html


End file.
